


this strange and mournful day

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Fix-It, M/M, MY PHEELS, Major Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint will pretend, if that's what he has to do. That doesn't make it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this strange and mournful day

Clint isn't sure what time it is, what day it is. He's not really sure what's going on outside; it was calm when he left, but that means next to nothing, not when they can be attacked with no warning.

Just like last time.

He isn't sure the last time he slept, either. He's running on adrenaline and whatever government speed they've been allowing him, since they frown on him just popping a handful of yellowjackets. That part's fine; he's done that more than once, and he'll do it again.

If he does anything else for SHIELD again. 

He knows what Phil would say if he knew Clint was even thinking about that, the possibility of not going on without him. He's not sure Phil would ever speak to him again; that doesn't matter, because Phil's never going to speak to him again anyway.

Everyone looks exhausted except for Bruce, who just looks really sad. Any minute now they're going to have to talk about this, start the debriefing, and Steve is going to say some kind of motivational shit and they're all going to nod and talk about sacrifice and honor and making sure that death means something, like they can possibly beat it, like they can possibly reclaim it, like they can change the fact that they're using someone's death to further their goals, and the instant that starts Clint is going to lose his shit entirely.

Clint stands up, fast enough that his chair almost flips, skittering away on its wheels, and walks out. He doesn't look back to see anyone's reaction. he can see it pretty clearly in his head anyway, disappointment and pity in equal measure. He's not making it better, just giving them more to work with: look at how sad Clint is, look at how much he lost, this is why we have to fight on, even if Clint doesn't want to.

Half an hour. They can let him have half a fucking hour.

Phil is lying in state in a sealed, clear-walled room in the morgue. It says a lot that the helicarrier has a morgue; everyone always knew someone wasn't making it back. It's not like Clint didn't know, like he went into this blind or naive, but every moment he went without thinking about it was a blessing.

There's a chair sitting along one wall, and he drags it with him to the door of the room's airlock. His thumbprint opens it, and he isn't sure whether he should think about that, whether he should even consider whether just anybody's would have worked or just his. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, holding his chair, while the airlock does- whatever it does to keep bad air on one side or the other. Clint doesn't care which way it's supposed to go, whether it's supposed to keep Phil away from Clint or Clint away from Phil; Clint never let anybody do that before, and he's damn sure not going to start it today.

Finally the inner door hisses open, and Clint walks through, setting the chair down next to the table. Phil looks pale; Clint knows his skin would be cold if he touched him, but he can't bring himself to do that. They haven't undressed him, haven't washed him, haven't even covered him in a blanket, but somehow that's better. He doesn't look like he could get up, not at all, but he doesn't look like a corpse, like a thing; he looks like Phil, only dead.

He sits with his elbows on his knees, his chin propped up on his fists, looking at the place where- where it ended, everything ended, Phil ended, part of Clint ended. He can't even really see it, just the torn fabric standing up around it, stiff with dried blood. It's better that way, really. It's just another reminder that they're just one step away; he's not a god or a supersoldier or the Hulk, and all it would take is one thing, one bullet, one stab wound, one infection, one missed step. It's not great to be reminded to his own mortality, but fuck that. He knows he's going to die; he just wishes everybody else didn't have to.

He sits there, and he sits there, and he knows more than half an hour has gone by, but if they want him they're just going to have to come and get him, because he's not going to go. He's resting his hands and forehead against the edge of the table, and the only reason he's not crying is that there's nothing inside of him, nothing but blank, empty space.

He hears movement; it sounds like it's coming from in front of him, but that's impossible, must be a trick of the acoustics in here. He sits up, turning to look behind him, but he catches something out of the corner of his eye that makes him whip his head around.

 _Phil_ is the one moving; he pushes himself up with his hands, swinging his legs around so that he's sitting on the edge of the table, across from Clint. He's coughing hard, and he leans down and spits blood onto Clint's shoe. That's not good, except for the fact that Phil is _dead_. Throwing up a little blood is a vast improvement.

Phil looks up at him for the first time, and he looks incredibly pissed off, his nostrils flaring. "Did that mother _fucker_ ," he pants, his voice low and raspy, "put a hole in my new jacket?"

"And your lung," Clint says, because he doesn't know what else to. "You, uh." He doesn't know how delicate he needs to be about this. "He killed you."

Phil's jaw clenches. "I see."

Clint is still staring at him, unable to do anything. He really wants to take Phil into his arms and hold him as tight as he can, kiss him until he can't anymore. That presents a lot of problems, though: one, blood, biohazard; two, helicarrier, security cameras and plexiglass walls, not _technically_ against regs- mostly because they hardly have any- but still tacky; three, not sure if it's a good idea to get that cozy with the recently dead.

Clint's not sure he needs to worry about any of that, because this is a weird stress-induced fantasy; Clint knows this for several reasons, but the most obvious of them all is that Phil would never use the word "motherfucker." 

Alarms start going off, and a medical team comes out of nowhere, wearing the blue hazmat suits that Clint has learned mean serious fucking business. The head doctor is barking at all of them as they enter the airlock, and Clint gets it together just enough to pull his chair out of the way and step to the side.

The airlock opens, and they swarm in around the table; Phil gives them the same "I have work to do, you people can reattach the leg later" look that he gives all medical personnel, but he doesn't fight. Clint's not quite sure what to do; he hasn't been sure what to do for several hours now, but it's a little worse at the moment. "This is quarantine, Barton," the doctor snaps, as if she can hear Clint's thoughts. "You're not leaving. Stay out of the way."

Clint puts his chair in the corner and sits down, just watching them work. One of the nurses turns Phil's head so he can look in his ear, and Phil catches Clint's eye, giving him that half-smile that's burned into Clint's memory, the one he'd never forget, the one he thought he'd only ever see again behind his eyelids.

And that's when it's too much for Clint; he hangs his head and cries, and he doesn't care if Phil can see, and he doesn't care if the med team can see, and he doesn't care if all of SHIELD is standing outside the room and _they_ can see. It doesn't matter, because today isn't the day. Today, he doesn't have to see one more person he loves put in a body bag. Today, they don't have to make the best of a bad thing. Today, they don't have to soldier on, standing on the shoulders of their dead friends and pretending like that's the honorable thing to do.

Today, Phil's alive. That's something to fucking fight for: because people live, not because they die.


End file.
